


Your Sins, Just Me and You

by dattumblrgal



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Paris (City), i am horrible at tagging im aware of that, painters au, this sums it up i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dattumblrgal/pseuds/dattumblrgal
Summary: Zayn used to think about time a lot ever since he was a child. It’s a fascinating thing no one can truly explain or understand. Often, he wondered how was it possible that just a short moment ago, it was the end of school year and now summer is at its end again. The infinite ways in which time passes are peculiar and mystifying. There were nights when he was lying alone in bed, staring at the ceiling and he tried to understand how is it that just a few short weeks ago, he was the happiest he’s ever been and now the other side of his bed was cold and as empty as his heart.OR - Zayn and Harry are together until they suddenly aren't. They meet again six years later.





	Your Sins, Just Me and You

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, Zayn and Harry are both painters, they meet again in Paris, things happened and will happen.
> 
> ! When they talk to the OCs, they're talking in French. (Sadly, I don't know any and there was too much dialogue to be translated anyway.)
> 
> ! The title is taken from the masterpiece AKA Dusk Till Dawn by Zayn ft. Sia. (Buy it on iTunes and stream it on Spotify and Youtube btw)
> 
> HUGE HUGE HUGE thank you to Phoebe, who basically made this fic to not be trash. Thank you so much for reading it like a hundred time and giving me the amazing advice. Thank you <3.  
> ALSO HUGE thank you to Ecem, who made the beautiful cover for this story. Thank you babe, you're an angel and always too good to me <3.

                                                                       

            Time is the most powerful ruler of all times. No one can trick it, no one can command it, no one can make time their slave. It’s an entity of its own. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just an instrument created to limit our being, to limit our lives and opportunities. Time is its own king and we are all its subjects. It dictates its terms and there’s absolutely nothing we can do to change them, shape them for our needs. Time has won wars and also lost them. Time has killed people but also saved them. Time will forever be our best friend and our enemy.

            Haven’t you ever wished for time to pass just a _little_ faster during boring lecture or a long ride? Or prayed that a moment stills and you can live in it forever? Of course, you have. We all have. But time just won’t even budge, will it?

            Years and decades slip through our fingers like sand, meaningless and vague. You’re eighteen, young and full of hope, ready to discover, travel and learn. You leave your parents behind with a kiss on your mum’s cheek and a pat on the back from dad, running from the front door with your bags, yelling: “ _Of course, I’ll miss you. See you at Christmas!”._ University is calling for you, the promise of new friends, relationships and parties more tempting than ever. You’re ecstatic, going to lectures and staying up till early morning hours, living off coffee and energy drinks and you haven’t experienced anything better. A party invitation is never refused, drinks at the pub never left unfinished. You write essays at 2AM and fuck in dirty bathrooms with people whose names you barely remember. Everything is fucking perfect and you want to be eighteen, young and careless, forever.

            And then your entire world turns on itself. You meet that one person that changes _everything._ It comes unannounced, completely out of the blue. Maybe you are just doing shots or drinking lukewarm beer when you see them. Laughing with your friend, drawing you in like the strongest magnetic field in the universe. You approach them of course, come swaggering with a smirk, innocently greeting your friend they were talking too. It’s no surprise they eye you with curiosity, their bottom lip caught between their teeth and you just _know_ the night won’t end without at least one of you getting naked.

            Your friend introduces you and you play it cool, acting completely unbothered by their perfect smile or keen eyes. There is this little dance between you two for a bit, you both play hard to get while literally aching for a touch, a kiss. And you get it. Tipsy, stumbling all the way, you end up at your flat you share with two friends and barely make it to bed. That night ends for you two when the sun is already up and sneaking in between curtains into your room. You lay together holding hands, sweaty and spent, you are staring into each other eyes and you _still_ think they are beautiful, despite the damp hair plastered over their forehead and purple circles under their eyes. Maybe you know it then, that you love them.

            Zayn used to think about time a lot ever since he was a child. It’s a fascinating thing no one can truly explain or understand. Often, he wondered how was it _possible_ that just a short moment ago, it was the end of school year and now summer is at its end again. The infinite ways in which time passes are peculiar and mystifying. There were nights when he was lying alone in bed, staring at the ceiling and he tried to understand how is it that just a few short weeks ago, he was the happiest he’s ever been and now the other side of his bed was cold and as empty as his heart.

            Time heals all wounds or so they say. Maybe it really does. It’s been six years since Zayn saw _him_ and he doesn’t ever think of him anymore. The pointless wondering has ceased and he no longer feels the need to know what _he’s_ doing with his life. Why should Zayn trouble himself with someone who couldn’t even explain why he ran away to a country an ocean away? _He_ definitely doesn’t think about Zayn, that’s a fact Zayn is sure of. So, now he’s happy. He’s had other relationships, people he could’ve even loved, and maybe he still dreams about green eyes sometimes, but it no longer makes his heart ache.

+

            You would think that when they finally meet again, it’s an explosion. No, it couldn’t have been more farther from that. It’s more like a mellow stream cascading into a strong river, growing louder and louder with each second. Just like when they met for the first time, it was unannounced and unpredictable, completely out of the blue.

            Zayn’s laid out on a red velvet seat with his laptop and notebooks in the Italian paintings hall in Louvre when someone throws themselves on the other end of the seat. He’s studying a Leonardo da Vinci painting in front of him when he hears _his_ voice. Zayn freezes, the pencil in his hand hanging above the paper and he feels like all the breath has been knocked out of him. Sheer panic rushes through him and he takes a deep breath to chase it away. He’s an adult for god’s sake, it’s been a damn long time since he was a teenager and lost his breath over people.

            “No, I swear to god, Gem. It’s not like, mediocre but nothing special from other da Vinci’s works. Mona Lisa, my arse. Ginevra de’ Benci and Lady with an Ermine are just as good. Oh c’mon, who’s the one with two art degrees, me or you? Whatever, it’s crowded as fuck. I’ll text you after dinner, yeah? Love you, bye.” Those are the first words Zayn hears him say after six fucking years. Complaining to his sister about how Mona Lisa is glorified over other da Vinci’s work while standing less than hundred meters from the actual painting. How very _him._

            Zayn is determined to ignore him, pretend he hasn’t heard him. He starts to scribble complete nonsense into his notebook, keeping his head down and trying to blend with other young people sitting around the long hall with notebooks in their laps, sketching, reading, taking notes. _He_ doesn’t have the right to come into Zayn’s life just like that, unannounced and unwelcome, creating havoc just by existing in this place where Zayn tries his hardest to forget _him_.

            “Zayn? Oh my god, is that you?” Zayn shuts his eyes for a moment and yells every single curse word in his head. _His_ morbid, somehow still enticing voice ruins everything. Now there’s no escape. Zayn has to face the one skeleton from his closet that he’s been hiding for years.

            Zayn forces a smile on his face and turns around. “Harry, hi. Fancy seeing you here.”

            Seeing Harry’s face after so many years is a shock. There’s almost nothing familiar about him at first. Short hair, barely even curling around his ears, a few more laugh lines and crinkles around his eyes, a soft, almost invisible stubble over his top lip and on his chin. But then there are things that make Zayn’s heart feel strained, choking it so it can’t pump blood. They try to yank all those feelings Zayn had buried so deep inside his chest out and force him to feel _everything_ as if he were twenty and in love again. Harry’s face-splitting smile that he uses to charm the pants off any and everyone. His dimple that Zayn used to poke to get Harry to stop frowning. The vibrant green of his eyes that to this day Zayn subconsciously uses in his paintings whenever he wants a dash of green in them. It hurts, it does. Memories are trying to make him act irrational, but there’s no way Zayn is letting Harry Styles weave his way back into his life.

            “How long’s it been? Six years?” Harry smiles, shaking his head slowly as if he couldn’t believe he’s seeing his kindergarten classmate again. Zayn forces a grin and nods.

            “Yeah, give or take.” They stare at each other for a moment. Zayn focuses his gaze to Harry’s eyes, because it’s nice to keep eye contact, isn’t it? Harry’s roaming all over Zayn’s face with his eyes, as if he’s never seen him before. Zayn refuses to ask Harry any questions. _“How are you?” “What are you doing here?” “Are you planning on continuing to act as if nothing happened between us? That you didn’t leave like a fucking coward?”_.

            “So, what are you doing here? I assume it’s not a holiday,” Harry points at the notebook in Zayn’s hands. Zayn looks down and nods again, unsure whether he should talk to Harry about his life. Why does he care? This fucking small talk means nothing to him, so why is he wasting his breath in the first place?

            “I’m working I guess,” Zayn says despite his better judgement, “I live here, have for a few years now. I’m lecturing at the Sorbonne. There are degrees you can do mostly in English, so yeah, I teach in English.”

            “That’s awesome,” Harry smiles, his dimple showing again. He’s scooted closer and Zayn can feel his body heat now. It feels too familiar. They spent countless nights sitting glued to each other and at one time, Harry’s body heat was Zayn’s favourite source of warmth. But that was ages and ages ago. There’s nothing left of the people they used to be back then. There’s nothing left of the feelings that were between them.

            “I moved here a few weeks ago, actually,” Harry confesses after the silence has been stretched for too long. Zayn lifts his head from where he was staring at his notes, searching Harry’s face. Calmness with which Harry announces serious and vital information has always astounded Zayn. He could talk about nearly dying in a car crash and telling you there’s no milk in the fridge with the same serene voice and unmoved face. Now it’s the same. This little piece of information could change _everything_ and Harry’s still unbothered.

            “Really? New York didn’t do it for you anymore?” Zayn knows his words sound a bit accusing, the old resentment and hurt finally getting to surface. After all, he never had the chance to yell at Harry, cry while screaming at him what a fucking dick he is. Perhaps he can make a scene here. Embarrass them both in front of maybe even hundreds of tourists. Maybe someone films it and it becomes viral on Twitter.

            Harry’s easy smile falls from his face, all the colour draining from his cheeks. Finally realizing that he was the one to fuck up? That he was the one to say “ _I love you.”_ and then move to another fucking continent? Does he finally feel guilt, his chest caving in, the weight of it all refusing to let him breathe?

            Instead of throwing hurtful words back, Harry chuckles. “Yeah. I guess my Carrie Bradshaw era has come to an end. Now I’m moving on to the Gil Pender era, here in Paris. Except I’m British, not American.” Zayn hates himself for it, but it makes him laugh.

            “So, you left your fiancée for a girl from the 1920’s? Or no time travelling for you?” Harry cackles loudly and promptly covers his mouth with his hand, his wide eyes quickly scanning his surroundings for any people giving him dirty looks.

            “No, just me and our good old twenty-first century,” he runs his hand through his too short hair, “anyway, how have you been these past few years?” Zayn hesitates to answer. With every second they’re talking, he’s falling deeper and deeper back in time. Feelings and memories he never wanted to acknowledge again are resurfacing and there’s no way he can stop them now. Harry’s waiting for his answer with a small, honest smile and maybe, just maybe, Zayn thinks he can do this. Talk like old friends who lost contact after they both moved on with their lives. Forget about their past, about all they’ve been through and just chat like they used ages ago. Will it hurt after Harry leaves again?

            “I’ve been great,” Zayn voices the half-truth. Harry doesn’t need to know how bad the heartbreak he caused him really was. How for months Zayn couldn’t sleep properly and wondered, asked himself what went wrong. Was he not enough for Harry? Why did they crumble down like a house of cards? Did he drive Harry away with his actions? Did Harry just simply fall out of love with him?

            “I’ve heard your art is doing really good. You had a show in New York last year, didn’t you?” Zayn’s left speechless after Harry’s question. Where did he find out? Why would Harry keep up with any part of Zayn’s life?

            Zayn clears his throat and forces a smile on his face again. “Yeah, I did. It was a small thing, but yeah. In this economy, it’s a miracle to be honest. How about you?”

            “Well,” Harry shrugs and cocks his head to the side, “haven’t been painting that much lately. I didn’t really have inspiration? But for a few years it was alright I guess. Some people said my art has gotten darker and too depressing, I don’t know. But in New York, there weren’t many people I desired to immortalize on a canvas. Americans, what can I say? But I got a poetry collection published. It was a mediocre success, but I’m proud of it none the less.”

            “So, you still are a Carrie Bradshaw then. Did you find your Big? And now you ran away to Paris with a rich Russian artist?” Harry laughs, a sound that used to be the loveliest of music for Zayn’s ears.

            “Oh, I wish. I didn’t have a proper relationship while in New York. I guess I was… too busy,” Zayn chuckles bitterly and stares at a painting in front of him instead of Harry. He was so busy, wasn’t he? Turns out some things about Harry haven’t changed.

            “What about you, hm? Have you charmed any Parisians since you’ve been here? I can imagine them all falling at your feet,” Harry says quietly, his voice almost wobbly.

            “Nah, nothing serious. A fling here or there,” Zayn still faces the paintings to avoid Harry. After six years, this is too much. Harry’s suddenly here, right in Zayn’s personal space. He can feel Harry’s warmth next to him and smell his cologne, something new and rich that he definitely didn’t use in uni. They’re talking after such a long time, acting like they’re nothing more than old friends. Meaningless small talk about their lives that poises as a buffer between them, as if they their love hadn’t ended with a catastrophe years before. An hour ago, Zayn was quite content, working on a presentation on Leonardo da Vinci for his class and Harry Styles hadn’t crossed his mind in ages.

            “Would you like to have dinner with me?” Harry startles Zayn with the question. Zayn turns to him, eyebrows drawn in confusion.

            “What? Like right now?” Harry nods softly, a hesitant smile on his face.

            “Yes, I mean… it’s been so long. We haven’t seen each other in forever,” Harry’s voice cracks at the end of the sentence and he clears his throat, turning away from Zayn for a moment. Zayn lets out a breathy chuckle and shakes his head in disbelief.

            “Harry, do you realize why we haven’t seen each other in forever?” Harry’s face turns a good shade of red. He looks down and starts to fiddle with his rings, something he always used to do to chase anxiety and nervousness away. Another thing that hasn’t changed.

            “Yeah, I know, I just- I thought it’s kind of like fate that we have met again? I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, didn’t think you would talk to me if I did. I’m just hoping you don’t hate me for what I did anymore.” Is it fate? Meeting a person, you once loved after years and years of trying to get over them? Or is it just universe laughing at you, throwing all the time you spent getting better in the fucking trash? After all, universe doesn’t care about our puny human lives. We live and die, billions of us. Maybe universe wastes our time just for the laughs.

            Zayn no longer hates Harry. Maybe he never truly did. He also doesn’t love him. That’s what he’s said to himself for years and it is the truth after all. Has he forgiven him? Not really. A thing like the one Harry did could never be forgiven, not entirely at least. You don’t do that to a person who loves you. You don’t break their heart and leave. Then you don’t ignore their calls, texts and emails for a year before they finally give up. That’s just not how it goes.

            But they’re adults, aren’t they? They can have a civil conversation over dinner, just like the old friends they’re apparently pretending to be. Zayn doesn’t love Harry Styles anymore and he never will again. He can have friendly dinner with him any time. From now on, they’re just old friends who lost contact after they both moved on with their lives. If that’s what Harry’s pretending to be, Zayn can play along.

            “Fate?” Zayn chuckles when the silence between them gets too suffocating, the chatter of many languages all around them providing obnoxious background noise. Do they know what’s going on between Zayn and Harry? Can they possibly see through their cover and witness the reunion of two people who used to be in love? Maybe the old Japanese ladies standing to their right are whispering about them. Trying to make sense of it after their grandchildren showed them that movie where two boys were in love with each other.

            “Whatever you believe, Harry. I’ll have dinner with you. Hope you don’t mind travelling a bit for it,” Zayn knows it’s a reckless and stupid decision, spending time with Harry after all these years. But he’s no longer stupid, naïve and twenty. Harry Styles can’t mess with his head anymore.

            “No, it’s fine. Thank you. We can go right now?” Zayn just nods and stands up, Harry following his suit right away.

            “Don’t lose me in the crowd or you’ll spend the next two hours trying to find the exit,” Zayn says and turns on his heels, walking quickly and dodging tourists. If he hadn’t spent countless afternoons here and got lost about seven times himself, they both would be looking for the exit until the closing hours when a tired employee would send them out. Now Zayn has enough practice to quickly run through the maze that is Louvre and get them out of the building as swiftly as any tour guide.

            No, their reunion isn’t some straight out of a rom-com or a Rosamunde Pilcher novel bullshit. They don’t just run into each other’s arms and kiss until their breath runs out. It doesn’t get filmed and shared on social media, how two people found each other again. But it’s not easy. Harry is a familiar presence and it makes Zayn think about a time years ago, when he was a completely different person. It hurts, it does. But Harry Styles broke Zayn’s heart once already, he isn’t going to do it again.

            Harry Styles is just a person from Zayn’s past. Someone that Zayn used to love and spend countless hours with. For a few years, he was happy with Harry. They laughed, kissed, fucked. Essentially, they were inseparable. But then Harry gave up and left Zayn in pieces. And he had to glue himself back together alone while Harry was an ocean away. It made Zayn the person he is today - stronger and no longer naïve, looking for love and letting himself find solace in a stranger. He’s an adult who can look back at the memories of his time with Harry, acknowledge them and move on with his day. None of it happened over night. And now, Zayn won’t allow himself to be ruined in a single night.

+

            They spend the next thirty minutes mostly in awkward silence, walking to a metro and getting on a train to the Latin Quarter. Zayn eventually leads them to a small restaurant where they make one of the best lasagne in Paris. He doesn’t go there often, since it’s a spot frequented mostly by tourists, but the food is worth it. They sit down at a table outside, since winter will be here sooner than later and it may be the last sunny October day of the year. Since it’s Paris after all, they order a bottle of red wine with their food.

            “So, Harry, what made you leave the land of freedom for white Christian men only and move back to Europe?” Harry chokes on his wine and Zayn takes a sip of his with a small smirk on his lips. He can do this – chat about their lives and pretend as if the last time they saw each other, they kissed on the cheek and said goodbye with smiles on their faces.

            “Well, I missed my family,” Harry clears his throat.

            “Why not England then?” Zayn cocks his head, whirling the wine in his glass. Harry sighs and looks up, his elbows on the table.

            “I don’t know. England is boring. I thought about going back to Edinburgh, but I felt like that city should stay as a part of the memories from uni. Paris is just so full of culture in a way that London or Manchester could never be. Besides, the weather is better. I’m used to warm summers now, not those bleak cold excuses for them that our homeland has.” Their food arrives and they fall into easy conversation while eating.

            Zayn though it would be much harder, painful, cold-blooded almost. He was expecting his heat to race the whole time, his breath to get caught in his throat every time Harry spoke, but none of it happens. They don’t sit in choked silence while poking at their food. Somehow, they talk and talk and talk, and Zayn doesn’t feel like running away with tears in his eyes or punching Harry while screaming at him how he broke his heart. Six years of their lives are summed into words, sentences and short stories. For a moment, it seems like they’re back in university, having dinner like they used to all the time. Zayn could even believe it but too many things are proving him otherwise. Harry’s short hair, the French chatter all around them, the distance between them. If they really were twenty, none of it would be like this. For starters, they’d be sitting right next to each other – never on the opposite sides of the table. They would also be holding hands when they’re not eating, possibly sharing a kiss here or there. But most importantly, they wouldn’t be walking on egg shells, carefully picking and weighing their words.

            Some things are still the same though. Zayn listens to Harry’s ramblings stories, a tiny smile sneaking onto his lips as he watches Harry gesticulate with his hands wildly. It’s nice in some way, to venture into his memories and not be depressed about them for three days after. But he has finally moved on from his past with Harry. Got over the sadness and heartbreak, and soon, he’ll be able to look back at their time together without any resentment and hopeless queries about why Harry left him.

            Now Zayn’s sitting across from Harry, honest smiles on both of their faces, and yeah, he can do this. His heart doesn’t ache and he finds the time welcoming. Harry is a familiar face after all, a classmate from university if you take away all of that extra baggage. Maybe six years was enough for them to leave all that love behind, the hate that followed it as well and now they have a clean slate. In a strange country, in a city that isn’t tainted by the memories of their love, a place that never experienced them as lovers, maybe they can be friends here. Two old friends who moved away after uni, finding themselves in the same city. They’d be nothing more than two familiar people who found each other in a strange country, two Englishmen in the middle of Paris.

            “God, I can’t even imagine you as a high school teacher,” Zayn laughs vehemently, probably startling the old couple at the table next to them. He can feel his cheeks heating up from all the glasses of wine he’s drunk over their meal and dessert.

            “Three years. Three years, can you believe that? It was terrible to be honest. None of the kids respected the subject or me for that matter. They though it was just a free period where they had to draw something while chatting to their friends. It was a private school you know, so the concentration of self-important arseholes was at its highest. I almost lost my damn mind there,” Harry’s swinging around with his wine glass in between taking sips, almost hitting a waitress as she passes by. He pulls his arm back, his eyes wide, lips pressed together to hold in the laugh. As soon as she’s back inside, they both break into raucous laughter.

            “Why didn’t you leave if it was that bad?”

            “The money was good. I wanted to teach little kids, you know? But in all of New York, I couldn’t find a job like that. So, I ended up with teenagers, but with a less cleaning to do around classroom. Shit, what time is it?” Harry rolls up his sleeve a bit and looks at his watch, groaning.

            “I’m sorry, but I need to get home. I’ve got to get to the office early tomorrow and I live on the other side of the river, so I need to catch a metro before it closes for the night. Have I even told you where I work? I’m not sure I did. Anyway, it’s a publishing company and like, I’m one of the illustrators. So yeah, we do magazines and books, all kinds of stuff. But tomorrow, there will be a kids’ book presented and they’re gonna pick one of us to illustrate it all? Anyway, I’m tipsy and I’m rambling. Now get off your arse so I can say goodbye properly,” Harry managed to get out of his chair, stuff his tight jeans pockets with his phone and wallet, leaving a 20€ note on the table, and stand up, all while rambling and then ushering Zayn to get out of his chair, where he was more than comfortable. But he does stand up and Harry swaddles him in a hug, hanging his chin on Zayn’s shoulder.

            “It was really great seeing you again,” Harry whispers and he’s gone before Zayn can even say goodbye.

            For the first time since they sat down at the restaurant, Zayn’s breath gets caught in his lungs, heart beating faster than a drum in a marching band. He feels as if Harry’s hands burned prints right onto his back, blazing through his jacket and melting the layers of cells of his skin. Harry’s scent lingers on him, the alien cologne punching its way to Zayn’s senses. All the feelings that were forbidden to come back are suddenly terribly present. Now he can’t escape, can’t run away.

            Harry Styles came back into his life as peaceful as a butterfly sitting down on his shoulder. All smiles and easy laughter, he was a butterfly that weighs a tonne and settled itself right on Zayn’s heart, screaming at him to grieve the memories from when they were young and in love. They fell into their old tracks so fucking easily that Zayn couldn’t believe it at first. But that can’t happen. _It can’t._ Not after all these years. Not after years of trying to put himself back together.

            So, Zayn goes to a club on a Tuesday night. After drinking half a bottle of wine already, he gets only two vodkas that he’ll regret in the morning anyway. He smiles brightly, laughs at dumb jokes, and lets his accent taint his French a bit, only to get the two cute girls giggle about how they love when foreigners speak French to them. It’s all a mask, a version of himself Zayn rarely uses these days, one he exploits only when he wants to get laid as quickly as possible.

            He ends up at one of the girls’ flat, both of them stumbling in while giggling and kissing messily. She’s a petite blonde with brown eyes and thin lips, universally pretty and feminine. Zayn fucks her on the couch, her dress rolled up to her armpits, his jeans pulled down only a little under his arse. After they both come, she thanks him with a smile and gently kicks him out. None of them leaves a number on the other’s arm, scribbled messily with a pen or for that matter, asks for it. They part their ways, both satisfied with the night, and they’ll probably never meet again. It was just sex, mutually beneficial, ending with them still as strangers. Exactly like Zayn wanted all along.

            When Zayn comes back to his place, he showers, rubs the smell of stale cigarette smoke from the club and the girl’s perfume off him. When he’s standing under the hot stream, watching the water run down the drain, he realizes that he and Harry didn’t exchange numbers or any kind of contact information. Zayn spends the next two hours in his bed wondering whether it was a mistake, or the best thing that could’ve possibly happened.

+

            Zayn sees Harry again three days later. He’s walking out of the Art building, absentmindedly greeting a student of his when he sees him. Harry’s just standing there on the street, leaning against a lamp post, sunglasses on as he gives Zayn a small wave. Zayn rolls his eyes, but walks to Harry nonetheless. It’s that fucking magnetism that drew him to Harry in the first place all those year ago and again a few days before in Louvre.

            “Hey, sorry to ambush you like this,” Harry says as a greeting. Zayn just hums and starts to search his jacket for cigarettes and a lighter. He finds the pack and shakes one out, mostly just so he has something to do with his hands and distract him.

            “Yeah, no, it’s fine. I’m used to people following me-sorry, stalking me to my job,” Zayn mumbles as he lights the cigarette up. He takes a drag and blows out the smoke out of the side of his mouth. Harry always hated it when he blew it right at him, so he tries not to start bickering about meaningless shit like that.

            “You gave me no choice, sir. I believe you forgot something the last time we saw each other,” Harry pulls his phone out of a pocket and holds it between them, his thumb and pointer finger pinching the iPhone’s top left corner.

            “That’s your phone, Harry,” Zayn mumbles, a puzzled look on his face.

            “I know, I know,” Harry smiles, his arm with the phone still outstretched, “but you didn’t give me your number. I came home and wanted to text you to see if we can go out again, but I realized I couldn’t. So, there you go, you can put it in.” Zayn chuckles and shakes his head.

            “You really came here and waited for me, instead of like, I don’t know, trying to find my email somewhere? You know, it’s there on the internet and it’s way easier to find than you may think.”

            “Excuse you, when have you ever answered your emails on time? I wasn’t about to wait two weeks until you finally notice it and reply,” Harry stiffens after he says the words. The past is pulling their ankles again, biting and scratching at the bones.

            “Oh no, excuse you, I’m a professor now, there are desperate students emailing me all the time, trying to make me push back deadlines or save their grades. I’m very responsible with my email these days,” Zayn chooses to ignore the tension that was rising between them for a hot second, not giving it a chance to flourish and ruin his day with more of that hopeless speculation.

            “Fine, whatever,” Harry chuckles nervously but his shoulders and face visibly relax, “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he wiggles the phone in his fingers and Zayn takes it, mostly because he doesn’t want to watch it fall on the hard pavement. He punches the code ‘1201’ in and the phone unlocks. Zayn stills, realizing what he had just done. He thinks his heart misses a beat, his breath ragged. Zayn wasn’t thinking, his mind was completely somewhere else, probably on a test he needs to get ready. He wasn’t aware that he put in the old passcode Harry had when they were together – Zayn’s birthday. It was too familiar and he wasn’t thinking about it, he just did it.

            Zayn quickly shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts together and puts his number in Harry’s phone, going as far as saving it for Harry and sending a _“Hi”_ text to himself.

            “Now, you have my number, I have yours. Done,” Zayn hand shakes slightly as gives Harry the phone back, finding his cigarette almost burned to the filter, ash gathered at the end of it. He throws it on the ground and crushes it with his boot.

            “Do you have time right now? Maybe we can stop by somewhere for a cup of coffee? I passed a lovely place on my way here, just around the corner?” Harry asks hesitantly, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers, a nervous trait of his that Zayn knows too well.

            “Yeah, whatever,” Zayn gives Harry a strained smile, agreeing to something he never should’ve even considered. Harry beams at him and starts walking to the café right away. Zayn mentally slaps himself and follows Harry.

            Zayn thinks about Harry’s passcode the entire way to the café. Why on earth would he still have it? What does it mean? Is it just a habit, Harry getting a new phone and choosing the combination only because he’s had it for years? The numbers not meaning anything more than something Harry’s used to? Zayn tries to shut his mind up before he god forbid blurts out a question about it to Harry.

            The place is not even two minutes away. A tiny café littered with students with their laptops or textbooks open on the tables, cups and cups of coffee surrounding them. Zayn and Harry order their coffee at the front counter, Zayn insisting to pay for it since Harry found the time to come all the way to Latin Quarter. The coffee cups in their hands, they find a table in the back, two cozy armchairs in the corner that must be empty only by some astronomical luck.

            “You know about the children’s book I told you about the other night?” Harry asks, licking foam off his spoon. Zayn just nods, taking a sip of his coffee.

            “Well, they picked me. The writer especially liked what I did, so yeah,” Harry’s smiling softly into his coffee, a light pink tint appearing on his cheeks. Zayn can’t help himself but notice it, these new little details about Harry. Years before, Harry barely ever blushed or felt too humble about his art, his achievements. Somehow, Harry appears softer now, his words and personality not as brash as it was when he was twenty-two. He doesn’t strut around on the sidewalks, head high, sunglasses on, not a care in the world. There’s still confidence in his presence and he’s so visibly comfortable in his own skin. It’s just some little thing about him that is more… emotional. His smile is rarely a provocative smirk, his words never cutting and his demeanour less overwhelming.

            “Congratulations. Why aren’t you celebrating with your friends right now? It’s Friday afternoon.”

            “Yeah, well, I guess I kinda am now? Don’t really have anyone to celebrate with,” Harry blushes a deep shade of red, over-stirring his coffee and avoiding Zayn’s gaze. He must be embarrassed about it. Years before his circle of friends was roughly the size of a small village. People gravitated to him, fought for his attention and Harry _loved_ it. He always used to say that he was a bit of an attention seeker. Harry must realize now that Zayn knows all about it, because he was right there with Harry most of the time.

            “Oh, hell no. You’re coming with me tonight,” Zayn blurts out, the filter between his mouth and brain clearly malfunctioning. Harry stares at him, a bit bug-eyed, as if he couldn’t believe that Zayn has just asked him to go out. Zayn can’t believe it either. How many times has he promised himself over these past three days that he’ll stay away from Harry, mainly to protect his heart that took a lot of time to heal? Countless of times. And yet, here he is, asking Harry to come out with him tonight because he felt sorry for him. It hasn’t even happened yet and he already regrets it.

            “I’m going out with a couple of friends tonight, it’s just a casual thing. And don’t worry about them being like strangers or something. They’re all really easy going, most of them artists as well. You’ll fit right in,” Zayn rambles on, Harry beaming at him from across the table, happiness literally illuminating his skin.

            “That’s actually perfect. Thanks,” Harry smiles, his dimple popping up on his cheek.

            “Don’t even mention it. I’ll text you the address,” Zayn gives Harry a forced smile, trying to convince himself that it isn’t that bad of an idea. It’s just a night out, isn’t it? Zayn’s friends will be there and Zayn’s pretty sure he won’t even have to talk to Harry once Esme and Valerie start asking Harry all about New York. It’ll be fine, just a regular night out - with one extra person Zayn thought he’d never see again.

+

            A few hours later, Zayn meets Harry in front of a bar he and his friends meet at more often than not. They come inside, finding the table easily because Mar is waving at them from her seat. Zayn can sense that Harry is nervous, standing awkwardly next to him as Zayn greets and kisses cheeks with everyone. Then he introduces Harry to them as “an old friend from university” and Harry is enveloped in hugs, kisses and congratulations, because of course Zayn had to tell them about the book. In that moment, a cheek-splitting smile appears on Harry’s lips and stays there for the whole night.

            Everyone absolutely adores Harry. Zayn was right when he said he’d fit right in. Wine and shots are weighing down their table and there’s not even a drop of tension. Harry laughs with Zayn’s friends and gets progressively drunker and drunker. Valerie tries to flirt with him which makes Harry laugh even harder when he asks her if he looks particularly straight that evening and whether he should go flirt with some men to restore his reputation. That makes everyone laugh so hard, especially Delmar since he almost chokes on his wine. Valerie doesn’t get embarrassed, not at all. Instead she smacks Harry’s shoulder and Delmar’s head and starts telling a story about how her dog almost killed a squirrel in the park.

            As it’s the custom, time flies exceptionally fast when you’re having a good time and sooner than later, their table stars to get emptier and emptier, along with the bar. Esme and Delmar are the last to leave, Esme basically dragging him out, Delmar drunkenly calling after them that he needs to sculpt Harry before the icebergs melt and they all drown. And then it’s just Zayn, Harry and the leftover alcohol.

            “Thank you for tonight, it was really amazing. I love your friends so much,” Harry slurs over his words, his arms on the table, one outstretched palm up and the other supporting the weight of his head. There’s a sheepish smile on his lips and he’s looking at Zayn, his eyes glossy and gaze unwavering.

            “You’re welcome, I’m pretty sure they love you too,” Zayn leans against the textile seat back behind him. Harry suddenly lifts himself up slowly and mirrors Zayn’s position. They sit in silence for a while, just following the movement of the bar, people filtering in and out, both of them too drunk and sleepy to talk. After a moment, Zayn turns his head to the side and finds Harry watching him, one leg bent and resting on the seat, his head pillowed on the back of it. He’s looking at Zayn, his eyes calm and shiny, an unreadable expression on his face. Zayn stares back, his mind trying to swarm him with questions so he stops thinking altogether. Whatever, if the universe wants him to fuck everything up, then it’ll happen whether or not he overthinks every single moment of the evening.

            “I miss you,” Harry confesses softly, his voice barely audible in the minds of the bar’s chatter and sounds. Glasses clicking against each other, a song playing from the audio system, some drunken singing. Despite all of that, Zayn hears Harry clearly, too clearly for his liking. His heart jumps in his chest and he takes a shuddering breath.

            “I’m right here,” Zayn whispers instead of saying something rational like: “ _Don’t do this, Harry. The last time you left I was broken for years and I can’t do it again.”_ Everyone has their weaknesses and apparently, Harry is Zayn’s self-harming, but satisfactory one. He’s like the most delicious chocolate with tiny spikes inside that you don’t feel at all while eating, only to later find them cutting up your insides.

            “I know. It still doesn’t seem real. I’ve been missing you for six years. I have to pinch myself here and there when I’m with you to make sure I’m not dreaming,” Harry’s voice is trembling, his bottom lip quivering.

            “I’m right here,” Zayn repeats. He doesn’t have the energy to fight right now. So many things have been left unspoken, kept inside his chest for years, but this isn’t the time for them. One day he’ll scream them all at Harry, finally tell him how it _hurt_ for so long, how fucking awful he felt when he found out about New York. He will, but later.

            Zayn missed him too is the thing. How couldn’t he? Especially the first weeks after Harry left. There was still a small flickering flame of hope that Harry will come to his senses and call, apologize, promise he’ll come back. But he didn’t. More weeks have passed, months and years with no contact from Harry. Of course, Zayn eventually gave up. A hole was left in his shattered heart, but he had to move on with his own life. So, Zayn started to fill the void in his chest with meaningless hook ups and relationships, where he knew none of them could commit for longer than a few weeks or months. Sometimes when Zayn was drunk or high, he allowed himself to relive some of the old memories and wonder about Harry. It always ended badly, but still it was better than actually finding out how Harry was doing. Over the course of six years, Zayn didn’t look up Harry’s social media or ask their mutual friends about him. There was no concrete evidence Zayn could torture himself with.

            Harry brings his left arm up, settling his palm on Zayn’s cheek and slowly running his finger over his cheekbone. Zayn doesn’t flinch at the touch, Harry’s hot palm against his skin is familiar, comforting in a way Zayn hates to admit. They just stare at each other, eyes glassy from all the alcohol, Harry’s hand burning through the walls Zayn put around himself, his heart. The moment is interrupted god knows how many minutes or even hours later when a waiter politely asks them to leave because they’re closing.

            So they stumble out of the bar and start walking in no particular direction, their feet heavy and eyelids even heavier. They stop near a parked taxi that seems empty, Zayn leaning against a building and Harry standing in front of him, so close Zayn can feel his body heat on himself. This is a recurring image from their uni days – them standing close together outside a bar, usually in an alley, but their lips used to be glued together, kissing, groping and moaning into each other’s mouths. Now they just stand there, watching the other breathe while more people stumble out of establishments around them, drunk and giggling.

            “I’m gonna take that cab home, you wanna share?” Harry’s hot alcohol scented breath hits Zayn’s face.

            “No, I live like a street down from here,” Zayn mumbles. He really needs to lift himself off the wall before he falls asleep in the middle of the pavement.

            “Alright. Goodnight then,” Harry mumbles but stays rooted to his spot, not moving towards the car at all.

            “Goodnight, Harry,” Zayn sighs and leans his head against the cold wall behind him. He’s gonna fall asleep, isn’t he?

            Before he can do that, Harry cradles his face in his hands, covering Zayn’s cheeks with his gigantic palms. Zayn is suddenly more awake than he was this morning as he stares right into Harry’s bright green eyes. Fierce - that’s how he would describe them. Harry’s eyes are _burning_ but with that? Passion? Anger? Intoxication? Zayn is too drunk to tell. Before he can ponder about Harry’s eyes some more, he feels Harry’s lips slamming into his own, the contact almost painful. There’s no time for him to decide what to do, because Harry starts moving his lips against his and Zayn follows his suit right away. He closes his eyes and revels in the feeling, in the moment, ignoring his annoying mind with the memories or his dick begging to be noticed. The world consists of nothing more than them, their tongues in each other’s mouths and this very moment. No history to be worried about and no future as well. Just for a moment Zayn pushes all of his concerns at the back of his head and licks into Harry’s mouth, mapping his teeth with his tongue. Their breath eventually runs out and they part, gasping for air, their chests rising and falling with rapid breaths. Zayn knows then that it’s over. Whatever it was – an extension of history, a chunk of the future or a loop hole in time, it’s done, finished, irreversibly gone. He places his hands on Harry’s chest and pushes him away gently.

            “Go get that cab before someone else takes it,” Zayn whispers and walks away from Harry as quickly as his drunk body allows him.

            He gets home significantly later than he would if he were sober, but he’s in his bed so it doesn’t really matter. Just before Zayn falls asleep, all of his clothes on, he gets a phantom sensation of Harry’s lips on his, but that’s probably just his drunk brain playing tricks on him.

+

            At this point you must be wondering “ _What in the fuck happened between them?”_. Well, for starters, you know how they met. Zayn and Harry couldn’t have started in any other way than with a drunken night full of passion and great, toe-curling sex. That was their first time. It was at the end-of-the-term party when they were finishing freshman year. Both of them drunk and horny, catastrophically attracted to each other, aching to kiss and touch, they ended up at Zayn’s flat. Despite their drunkenness, it was some of the best sex of their lives.

            You must think that after that, they were inseparable, that couple basically attached at the hip. Maybe you thought it was love at first sight – just like in the movies. Well, maybe it was love, but they barely even talked after that night. Numbers weren’t exchanged, Facebook friendship requests weren’t sent. Zayn and Harry went back to strangers again, possibly acquaintances who attended the same school and had a few mutual friends.

            You’re asking how they met again? At a party, where else? Turns out the few mutual friends was almost their whole friend groups and there was rarely a party where Zayn didn’t see Harry. More often than not, they fucked. In bathrooms, in strangers’ bedrooms, in their flats. It was something they just did and all of their friends knew. Whenever they were talking at a party, genuinely just chatting about essays or their art, they got wolf whistles and cat calls from everyone who knew them. And that’s how it went for a few months – they were at a party, they fucked and then didn’t talk afterwards. It wasn’t friendship, it wasn’t dating. Hell, they weren’t even proper fuck buddies since the thing between them wasn’t exclusive.

            A few months into their hooking up, Zayn was at the library, trying to piece together an impossible essay when Harry sat down next to him. It was the first time they talked _not_ at a party and it was fucking magical. They couldn’t stop laughing, smiling and giving each other shy looks as if they hadn’t had each other’s dicks inside them a dozen times before. Naturally, they went on a date the next day – a proper one in a restaurant. After that, they really were inseparable – the annoying couple that their friends are used to and never even refer to them individually. If they weren’t in class or in a studio, they were always together.

            The best part of their relationship was the art. Both of them art majors, painters who lived and breathed for art. Harry’s style was… you could say erotic, mostly nudes that were occasionally obscene. Of course, his favourite model was Zayn. They couldn’t possibly count how much time Zayn spent lounging around Harry’s bedroom, naked as he was born while Harry painted him. Thankfully, his style isn’t the most realistic one, the major component of paintings being black and colourful outlines with light shading in the same colours. Zayn painted Harry just a few times, but he used to sketch him often as practice or for assignments. Harry loved it, always enjoyed being behind the canvas and on it as well.

            Until their graduation, everything was perfect. Their fights were rare and always ended with sex. Finals seasons or annoying essays were the things that usually got them yelling. One would say their relationship was harmonic. Perhaps it was. They were happy, in love and they planned to go to graduate school in London, move in together and live their best lives. That was the plan, well, until Harry left without leaving any clues about it beforehand. There wasn’t excessive fighting, there wasn’t cheating or even cheap excuses not to spend time together.

            The day Harry shattered Zayn’s heart was as normal as any other. Harry came over to Zayn’s place, they cooked some dinner and watched a movie, then fucked and went to bed. They whispered I-love-you’s before falling asleep in each other’s arms. Nothing out of the ordinary.

            Less than twenty-four hours later Zayn was in pieces, his heart broken, without a clue what to do. Eventually, after two weeks of calling Harry and trying to talk to him, he started to get his shit together. He used his impressive recommendations and an art exhibition of his works to transfer to Sorbonne before the start of the year and moved to Paris. All of the things that reminded him of Harry - gifts, photos, paintings, were left in his parents’ attic and Zayn came to Paris as a new person. He didn’t allow himself to get romantically attached to anyone, had countless one-night stands and forgot about Harry Styles. Well, he pretended he did.

            Now Harry Styles is back in his life and Zayn can’t make up his mind about it. In some moments, it feels like a good thing, something that’s old, familiar but also new and exciting. Many years have passed and they have changed, grown into different people than they were. Maybe it isn’t a catastrophe waiting to happen. Maybe they can exist together in the same city, in the same social circle. But then the memories of his heartbreak crawl into Zayn’s mind and none of it matters. Harry changed, Zayn changed, big fucking deal. It’s still going to end like it did before – with Zayn heartbroken and Harry fucking off to a country an ocean away. Perhaps this time he’ll chose Australia.

+

            Zayn wakes up with a terrible hangover, his head pounding, mouth drier than a desert. Thankfully, at least he doesn’t throw up, but the entire day will be ruined anyway. There goes the essay correcting he wanted to do. He’s awake for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and trying to make his head stop spinning when his phone rings with a text. With a groan, he stretches his arm to the bedside table and blindly grabs his phone. It’s from Harry, starting with the words **_Im so sorry_** _._ He slides his finger over it, entering the passcode and reading it all.

            **_Im so sorry for last night. I was drunk as hell, im really sorry about it. My memory is kinda blurred so i hope i didnt say something stupid after the kiss._**

            The phone announces another text with a soft sound and it appears right under the one Zayn just read.

**_But i do miss you. That was true no matter how drunk i was._**

Zayn just stares at the screen, unsure what to say. His own recollection of the night isn’t the clearest, but the kiss is pretty lively. Harry’s lips on his after more than six years isn’t he a thing he could forget, not even in the drunken haze.

            He should be angry – angry at himself for letting it happen, angry at Harry for initiating it. But he isn’t. Not even a flare of anger or rage anywhere. And he can’t understand why. Why, why, why isn’t he sending furious texts to Harry right now, calling him and yelling at him _how he dares_ to kiss him after six fucking years of _nothing?_ How can he even think of kissing Zayn after what he did to him?

            His phone chimes with another text.

            **_Did you get home safe? You were quite drunk last night_**

            Zayn throws his arm over his eyes and groans. Why can’t he just hate Harry? Why on earth did Zayn let him weave his way back into his life? They were over, done, finished. Zayn didn’t think he would ever see Harry Styles again, let alone talk to him or kiss him. And now it happened – Harry is in Paris, very much real and here he is asking Zayn if he arrived home safely last night, just hours after they kissed against a building just like old times. None of it was supposed to occur ever again. But it did and Zayn has no idea what to do about it.

            **Yeah im fine dont worry,** Zayn replies despite his better judgement.

**_So are we okay?_**

            Zayn eyes the text, unsure what to reply. Are they okay? What is the protocol after kissing your ex you haven’t seen in six years? On top of it all, the circumstances of their breakup weren’t exactly traditional. There wasn’t a fight with them screaming at each other or a meltdown, both of them crying because they have to break up because of some outside factor they can’t control. No formula exists for this scenario.

**Yeah were fine**

Zayn locks his phone, throws it somewhere on his duvet and buries his head between the pillows. He ignores the notification he gets a few minutes later and resolutely ignores everything that isn’t his bed. All the warning signs and his brain are telling him to cut Harry out of his life because he’s going to end up hurt again. And then there’s his heart, playing tricks on him and trying to make him believe that everything will be alright, that he shouldn’t be scared of this.

            Once, many years ago, he let Harry into his heart, his life. He loved Harry fiercely, with his whole soul. And they were happy, happier than most people. They didn’t fight, didn’t cheat and lie. In the end, it was dishonesty that ruined them.

            Zayn knows now that he let himself rise too high. He was flying with all that harmony and love that he forgot about the reality and the possible collapse. Harry left and with one sentence, Zayn was back on the ground, broken and crushed. It’s been six years and he still doesn’t know why their relationship ended the way it did. He has asked himself countless question that he couldn’t possibly know the answer to. There’s only one person who knows for sure – Harry.

            Zayn needs an explanation from him. Preferably as soon as possible. If they’re supposed to be friends or whatever is it that they are, Zayn needs to know. It’s long overdue. But not today. Now he’s going to sleep off the terrible hangover and pretend he doesn’t see the pile of unmarked essays on his desk.

+

            The weeks starts off for Zayn in a hurry. After two days of ignoring all of his responsibilities, his phone and his work, he’s hit by all of it the second he steps into his lecture room. His desk calendar dreadfully reminds him the test on Friday, a meeting with his editor later that day and the deadline he gave himself for marking the essays. He groans and finishes his black coffee, reminding himself to get another one right after this lecture.

            Thankfully he teaches his last class at midday and by 1PM he’s packed up and ready to leave. The meeting with his editor isn’t until half past three, so he decides to call Esme if she’s free for lunch. She’s pretty much the only person Zayn wants to see when he’s busy like this, swamped with deadlines, essays and a million other things. Because she’s an actual angel and a superhuman, Esme agrees immediately and tells Zayn to meet her at the corner place near the theatre she works at.

            When Zayn gets at the restaurant, Esme’s already sitting down at a table by the window, a bottle of rosé and two glasses in front of her. She waves at Zayn with a smile, kissing his both cheeks when he comes to the table. He sits down with a huff, immediately filling his wine glass and taking a big gulp. Zayn swears that all Parisians are actually alcoholics and since he moved here, he feels like he’s becoming one too. They drink wine like water and no, it’s not just a myth or something movie makers do for aesthetic. Zayn has some friends that won’t turn their nose at a glass of wine in the morning during one of those rare times when they meet up at a café for breakfast before work.

            “Spit it out,” Esme mutters into her glass, a smirk on her lips. She knows Zayn like the back of her hand. When they’re the only two to meet for lunch, she knows Zayn is stressed or worried about something.

            “It’s the book,” Zayn sighs, sinking in his chair, “I have a meeting with my editor in like two hours and I’m just so fucking worried about it? Like, why am I even doing this? Who would want to see it?”

            “You’re still doubting yourself?” Esme raises her eyebrows, her tone almost scolding.

            Zayn puffs out a frustrated breath. “You know what I mean.”

            “If the publishers thought no one would want to see your art, then they wouldn’t want you to make a book out of it. Simple as that. And don’t tell me ‘ _you’re right, Esme’,_ ” she mocks Zayn’s British accent, making Zayn chortle, a teeny piece of his anxiety falling away.

            “I know I’m right, my love. I don’t want to see you frowning about this anymore. Tell me something about the book, something positive. You must have all of the pieces picked out already, yes?” Zayn just nods, stuffing his mouth with salad that arrived a moment ago. Esme ordered before Zayn came, just like she always does. Ever since she’s turned thirty, she’s been eating more healthily than ever. She even considered going vegan, but decided against it because of her love for cheese and seafood. Naturally, Esme tries to rope everyone into eating just pure grass as Delmar described it.

            “I’m just unsure about a few pieces. I did them in uni and some of my old friends modelled for them. We don’t really talk anymore and it may be weird.”

            “It’s art, why should you care? Besides, they should thank you for putting them in something so important,” Esme says while adjusting her messy bun. Zayn notices that she’s still in her training clothes after coming straight from the theatre.

            “It’s not that important, but you’ve got a point. It’s my art, they agreed to model for it.”

            “Exactly,” Esme points at Zayn with her fork like a mad scientist at her student and continues eating.

            “Have you painted your friend, the one you brought along on Friday, Harry?” Esme asks after a moment, her mouth full. Zayn stops in his track, leaving the fork hanging in his hand.

            He hasn’t thought of Harry all day. Actually, he hasn’t thought about him much since Saturday when he drowned out his thoughts with sleep and binge-watching Bones. Truth is, Zayn didn’t want to think about Harry ever again. Not after their kiss – the thing that sabotaged their entire new found “friendship”. Now he’s forced to bring Harry back into his mind and the memory of three paintings that are sitting in his parents’ attic as well.

            “Yes,” Zayn answers simply, staring into his salad to try and avoid a conversation about Harry.

            “Speaking of Harry, Delmar really wants to go on a dinner with him. I texted him before you came and he suggested that we should go somewhere. Me, Del and you’ll bring Harry with you,” Esme says without lifting her eyes from the salad, picking out croutons and putting them aside.

            “Why?” Zayn asks, confused.

            “Del wants to make a sculpture of him. On Saturday morning, he decided that his idea from previous night wasn’t just drunken blabbering.”

            “Why do I have to go?” Zayn whines. Seeing Harry again isn’t exactly on Zayn’s wish list right now. Especially after the kiss. Why is everything trying to get more and more complicated than it already is? Sure, they need to talk but definitely not with alcohol and other people present.

            “Zayn!” Esme exclaims, her face screwed into vexed expression, “he’s _your_ friend. You can’t just abandon him and let him go out with almost strangers.”

            “Yeah, he’s my ‘ _friend’_ ,” Zayn sighs and rests his cheek on his palm. How did he even get here?

            “Amazing, it’s settled then,” Esme smiles to herself, typing something on her phone, “Thursday, five o’clock, don’t know where yet. Call Harry and let me know if he’s free.” Zayn just hums noncommittally; which Esme takes as an agreement.

            “When are you leaving for Russia? Saint Petersburg, right?” Zayn asks Esme, changing the subject of their conversation. He needs to distract himself and induce a false sense of happiness before he meets with his editor.

            Esme lifts her eyes up from the screen and her entire face lights up as she nods.

            “Next week, Wednesday. I’ve been rehearsing like crazy today, I was so happy you called. Camille won’t let me breathe, I basically ran away from her.”

            They fall into easy conversation, Zayn avoiding Harry in his thoughts and with his words like the black plague. When he leaves the restaurant an hour later, it’s with a smile on his lips and feeling somehow excited about finalizing his book.

+

            Zayn finds himself in a restaurant with Esme, Delmar and Harry on a Thursday evening for an early dinner. Just like Esme said they would. When Zayn called Harry the day before, Harry was more than eager to go, agreeing right away. They meet up at a new spot in Montmartre that Esme wanted to try. Zayn is understandably anxious about it and vows that he won’t drink more than two glasses of wine to prevent himself from something stupid, like letting Harry kiss him again.

            “Harry, has anyone ever made a sculpture of you?” Delmar asks maybe an hour into their dinner. Zayn is genuinely surprised he hasn’t brought it up much sooner.

            Esme sighs and takes a sip from her wine. “Here we go.”

            Harry chuckles and shakes his head. “No, none that I know of.” Delmar nods, his wine glass leaned against him bottom lip, staring into distance as if he were taking notes in his head.

            “He hasn’t shut up about you since Friday, Harry,” Esme looks at him and puts a reassuring hand on his forearm.

            “Well, how could I? Look at his chest, my darling. It was made to be sculpted.” Harry takes a look down at his open shirt which is indeed showing a lot of skin, the antlers of his butterfly peeking out from the bottom. Esme and Delmar start to bicker about Harry’s chest, the importance of sculptures in 21st century and other things like usual.

            Harry leans over to Zayn and whispers into his ear while watching the couple on the other side of the table, “is this normal for them?”

            Zayn feels Harry’s hot breath on his ear, his lips dangerously close and it sends a shiver down his spine. He can distinctively smell Harry’s strange cologne that is becoming more and more familiar.

            “Yup,” Zayn nods, “they’ve been always like this, ever since I met them a few years ago. Just FYI, they’ve been married for almost ten years. It might look a bit dysfunctional to you, but once you get to know them, it’ll be a completely ordinary sight.”

            “They’re married?” Harry gawks and looks at Zayn, all bug-eyed.

            “That they are,” Zayn chuckles.

            Zayn gets up to leave at nine, excusing himself saying that he has an early lecture. The entire night turned out better than he had anticipated. Firstly, he didn’t jump at Delmar’s cheap tries to talk Zayn into doing shots. And secondly, he managed to casually talk to Harry without wanting to jump out of his skin. But most importantly, Zayn didn’t think about the kiss from Friday night at all. He was afraid that once he’d see Harry, the memory would swarm him mind and annoy the whole evening. Thankfully that didn’t happen and this whole “friends” thing seems to be working out despite what happened on Friday.

            When Zayn’s saying goodbye to Esme and Delmar, Harry stands up from his chair and shrugs his jacket on.

            “I’m gonna go as well. It’s a work day tomorrow after all. Besides, me and Zayn can share a cab, right?” Harry looks at Zayn with a question. Zayn just nods, a small strained smile on his face.

            They walk out of the restaurant together and head in a vague direction of the centre of the city. Just as Harry takes his phone out to call a cab, Zayn gets a very, very bad idea.

            “Do you mind if we walked for a moment? I wanted to talk to you about something,” Harry stops walking, his phone to his ear. He has a wide-eyed look on his face but nods and puts him phone back in his jeans nonetheless.

            Zayn takes a deep breath, not exactly ready for this conversation. He feels like he could never possibly be ready for this but he needs to finally know _why_ , so he just swallows and musters up all his confidence.

            “What are you doing, Harry?” Zayn asks finally, his voice defeated. Harry clenches his jaw and takes a few deep breaths before swallowing.

            “I don’t know what you mean,” Harry deadpans but his voice is shaking slightly. Zayn doesn’t know if it’s from the cold or his question.

            “You know very well what I mean. All of this, Harry,” Zayn throws his hands up, gesturing to everything around them, “the dinner last Monday, waiting for me and then asking me to go to get coffee. Fine, Friday night was my fault and this as well. But why? I don’t understand what you’re trying to achieve with all of this and I can’t do this anymore,” he hugs his arms around himself, mostly to fight the cold but also to keep himself from reaching for a cigarette. Harry’s just standing in front of him, his arms hanging alongside his body. Zayn absolutely cannot read Harry’s face. His lips are pressed into a thin line, but other than that, Harry’s face is completely expressionless.

            “I missed you,” Harry says quietly after a long moment of silence. Zayn huffs out an exasperated breath and grabs at his hair, tangling his fingers in the longer strands.

            “I know, Harry. You told me on Friday and then again on Saturday. But that doesn’t explain why the fuck you’re pretending like we’re some old friends!” Zayn raises his voice. He’s frustrated with Harry, confused about pretty much everything in his life right now. And Harry just stands there, staring at Zayn with glossy eyes.

            “I was resigned with never seeing you again, never speaking a word to you for the rest of my life. Because that’s what I thought would happen. And then, I move to Paris and see you within a month of being here. Can you imagine how happy I was that you actually talked to me? So I had to pretend as if you were an old friend to muster up the courage to have a conversation with you. I couldn’t have just turned around and left you. I had to take the chance and try to spend some time with you again,” Harry’s voice is choked up, strained.

            “You left!” Zayn yells, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, “sneaked away in the middle of the night like a fucking coward! You don’t get to miss me and pretend like nothing happened between us! I don’t think you realize what a fucked up thing you did. Harry, you moved away to another fucking continent without telling me! You fucking told me you loved me and then a few hours later, you slipped out of my bed and left without saying a fucking word! Do you know how I found out?” Harry shakes his head, tears slowly falling down his cheeks.

            “I called your mum. You weren’t picking up the phone and I was worried something might have happened to you. So, I called your mum, panicking and then she said ‘ _Sweetheart, he’s already on the plane to New York. He left in the morning, did you get your dates mixed up?”_. She thought I knew. And of course, I didn’t. What a little trivial thing, hm? Who even tells their boyfriend of two and half years that they’re moving away to America to go to school?” Zayn chuckles bitterly. It’s followed by a sob, matching those wracking through Harry’s chest.

            “You didn’t even have the fucking decency to at least send me one fucking text! Or I don’t know, perhaps apologize once we met again and not act like nothing fucking happened! You have no idea what you did to me, Harry. You have no idea how long it took me to finally get over you! It was years! Fucking forever till I could go a full day without thinking about you and beating myself up for something that wasn’t even my fault. And here you are, strutting around like we’re best fucking friends! I was broken. Fucking destroyed. I didn’t know what to do, how to continue with my life again. You not only broke my heart, Harry, you broke _me_. You don’t have the right to spend time with me after what you did,” Zayn watches Harry cry for a moment, his own tears streaming down his face as well. Harry avoids his eyes, instead he stares to the side at the empty street next to them.

            “You can’t imagine how sorry I am,” Harry whispers, wiping the snot on his nose with the back of his hand, “I never wanted to leave you. Never.”

            “Harry, stop trying to feed me this bullshit. You left and it was your decision. No one was holding a gun to your head. You didn’t even properly break up with me. Why did you do it like that?” Zayn asks, completely crushed, done with all of it.

            “I was scared. I was so fucking terrified, so I ran away.”

            “Harry, “Zayn sighs, tired of Harry’s stupid excuses.

            “No,” Harry interrupts him, “just fucking listen to me for a minute, yeah?” Zayn nods and runs his hands over his face. He doesn’t even want to hear it. All of this fighting is bringing the memories of the aftermath of Harry leaving back and Zayn doesn’t want to relive it, not one bit. Why did he try to get an explanation? This isn’t closure, this is the disruption of the carefully crafted peace Zayn’s had for years. He was over Harry, over the terrible fucking way in which Harry left him. It happened, Harry wasn’t coming back and Zayn knew he can’t change the past. How could an explanation change anything?

            “I didn’t apply for NYU. I was thinking about it for a bit, considered asking you if you wanted to go there instead of London. But in the end, I didn’t. I mentioned it to my mum and Gemma, though. It was a few months before graduation. One of them send the application for me, because _they_ decided, not _me_ , that I’d be an amazing opportunity and that I would regret not applying. About a week before I left, I talked to my mum about you. About us. I was so in love with you that I felt like I couldn’t even breathe when I wasn’t with you. So I sat down with my mum and basically told her that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I was planning to ask you to marry me once we moved to London, started school and settled down a bit. I knew it was kinda early, but I just loved you so much I couldn’t possibly think of it as a mistake. But my mum did. And she stuffed my head with all this bullshit, how I can’t even dare to do it and how I’m going to regret it. She just pulled all of these scenarios how we’re going to get divorced before we’re twenty-five and end up hating each other. She said it was just childish love, that we might not even last once we move in together. And her words got to me. I was young, stupid and thought that my mother could never be wrong about anything. So I got scared. The entire week when I was with you my mind was somewhere else. I was convinced that once we move to London we’d break up. So I went to my mum again three days later and we arranged it all in New York. I cried the whole time and she just shushed me and told me that I’m making the best decision. When I was getting out of your arms that night, I was crying the whole time. All the way home and all the way to the airport. Then during the flight again. When I landed and saw all your texts and missed calls I almost threw my phone against a wall. I was so fucking depressed the whole time I was in New York. I missed you so fucking much. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and I just- I hated myself for hurting you. For years I was literally stalking you on social media and then cried over it. But then I smiled, because you were smiling in those photos with friends and that helped me get through everything, knowing I didn’t ruin your life,” Harry manages a small smile at the end, pushing it out through his tears and sobs. Zayn is still crying as well, holding a hand to his neck, pushing his pointer finger into the skin. He can’t believe Anne would do this. Did she hate him the whole time he and Harry were together? Has he done anything to get her to dislike him so much that she talked Harry into leaving him?

            “Why didn’t you call?” Zayn whispers, his voice ruined after minutes and minutes of sobbing.

            “I was ashamed of myself. Because of what I did to you. I couldn’t – I didn’t think there was an apology that could possibly make it better. I just figured I’d stay in New York forever and hide from you, so I wouldn’t have to face the pain of seeing you again and seeing your hatred towards me. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I know no matter how many times I say it, it won’t erase or make better what I did. And thank you. Thank you for being kind to me after we met again. I know that any other person in the world would’ve spat in my face and probably slapped me as well. Thank you for letting me experience the person you are now. You’re just as bright, lovely and fucking brilliant as you were six years ago. Even more so. That’s one of the reasons why I went to find you at Sorbonne. I was fucking… enchanted by you. I couldn’t possibly imagine losing you again. And I was aching for at least the slightest little bit of your attention. I felt like you were willing to at least be my friend and honestly, that was more than I deserved.”

            Zayn can’t breathe. He fucking swears his lungs are filled with something, cutting him off from air. So much information was just thrown at him and he doesn’t know what to do, what to think. His mind is cluttered with questions and begging queries, but one stands out the most.

            “Why did you kiss me?” Zayn stammers. Harry chuckles wetly and runs a hand through his hair.

            “Why do you think?” there’s a pained sheepish smile on Harry’s face, his wet cheeks reflecting the lights from around them. Zayn can see the green of his eyes, sharp and focused, despite the fact that it’s night already.

            “I don’t know, you tell me,” Zayn says, his voice as steady as possible. He feels like stabbing himself in the heart. Maybe the pain he feels now would be muffled by the physical pain of his muscle and tissues being torn apart.

            “I love you. I’m in love with you. All those years we were apart, I loved you still. I never stopped and I never will,” Harry’s trembling slightly, his voice breaking at the end of the sentence. Tears are still streaming down his face.

            “God, Harry,” Zayn huffs out, bringing his hand to his forehead, “I can’t do this. Not right now. I need to- I need to think. I’m sorry,” he turns around and starts walking away from Harry quickly. Zayn doesn’t hear him call out after him, which would be a good thing if he didn’t hear Harry’s sobbing intensify. He just shuts his eyes for a second, fighting the urge to go back and hug Harry until he’d stop crying. Until both of them would stop crying.

            But Zayn just clenches his teeth and with tears streaming down his face, clouding his vision, he runs away from the only man he’s ever loved.

+

            When Zayn comes back home, he immediately throws himself into bed and tries to fall asleep. He can’t of course, not when his phone is blowing up with notifications and his head is about to actually blow up, because he can’t stop thinking about Harry.

            Tonight was just… too much. Zayn finally got his explanation, something he hoped would finally make him forget he ever loved Harry. Instead he got Harry telling him that he still loved him, even after the six years they spent apart.

            What Harry did was absolutely horrible and Zayn knows it’s wrong, but he finds some comfort in the fact that Harry was just as broken as he was. He shattered both of their hearts and made a tremendous mistake. They were fucking miserable for six years and why? Because of fear, doubt? Because Anne was overprotective and filled Harry’s head with bullshit? God, Zayn can’t even imagine how different everything would be if Harry hadn’t listened to her.

            The truth still doesn’t excuse what Harry did. He left his boyfriend, someone he wanted to fucking _marry_ , without an explanation. It doesn’t matter he was hurting and crying the whole time, he still did it. Zayn can’t help but feel some resentment. Harry might love him, but he still hurt Zayn beyond words.

            Zayn’s heart and mind are torn – one half telling him to never speak to Harry again, it’s his own fault that he and Zayn are not together anymore. The other his telling him to cool down, let the reality soak in and maybe, just maybe talk to Harry again. It’s a raging battle and so far, the result is unforeseeable.

            Zayn digs his phone out of his jeans on the floor to set his alarm clock. The notifications completely slipped his mind and when he touches the home button, he’s greeted by a string of texts from Harry. He accidentally slides one open before putting in his passcode so when his phone unlocks, it brings him to the entire conversation between him and Harry. Catching a glimpse of one, he decides to read them all. At least they won’t be begging to be read tomorrow morning, when he has to go out and be a functioning member of the society.

            **_Im so sorry for everything. I shouldnt have said that I love you now_**

**_I hope you can forgive me_ **

**_Just please call me tomorrow or whenever you want to_ **

**_Even if you tell me you hate me I have to talk to you again_ **

**_I cant let tonights fight be our last conversation_ **

**_Maybe you wont even read these but I hope you do_ **

**_Im sorry for tonight. Goodnight_ **

After reading the texts, Zayn’s chest feels even tighter than it did before. He wants to talk to Harry again, but he’s not sure if he can do it. It all reminds of him of after Harry left and it _hurts_. Zayn knows the truth now but this whole situation feels as if Harry left him again, only this time after a proper break up. _It should be the end of us_ – that’s what his rational part tells him. But there’s a nagging part of him that just whispers to make it better, to give them another chance, even after everything.

            Zayn doesn’t respond to Harry’s texts. Instead he sets his alarm and puts him phone on his bedside table to leave it charging overnight. With his mind overflowing with queries, useless wondering and painful memories, he manages to fall asleep even before midnight.

+

            Two days later, Zayn spends almost all of Saturday painting in his home studio, which is essentially just a spare room in his apartment. He works on finishing a piece he started way too long ago and should’ve been completed like a month before. Drowning his thoughts out with music doesn’t really work, so he paints mostly in silence, hearing only the occasional car driving down by his windows or the conversation from passer-by’s that’s loud enough to hear.

            Over the last forty-eight hours, he has realized a lot of things. Hours and hours of thinking brought him to an outcome that was inevitable – he still has feelings for Harry. Despite Harry running away for six years without a word, despite the heartbreak he caused him, Zayn can’t help it but admit that resentment isn’t everything he feels for Harry. He wants to hate him, or at least not care about him, god knows he does. But he can’t. No matter how hard he tries, his heart jumps in his chest when he remembers their conversation from Friday and the desperate, agonizing look on Harry’s face when he told Zayn he still loved him.

            Since they met again not even two weeks ago, Zayn was constantly trying to convince himself that there’s nothing left of the feelings he used to have for him. For a short period of time, he was determined to even become friends, as if that was possible with their past. But somewhere deep down, Zayn knew he was lying to himself the whole time.

            When Harry hugged him that first night, he felt it; he felt it right away and he tried to dismantle the feeling, forget it by sleeping with a cute girl that was nothing like Harry. Ever since that night, Zayn knew that he has not gotten over Harry Styles. One fucking hug was enough to bring back the emotion from years ago and settle it in his heart again. When he felt Harry in his arms again, he should’ve known that his traitorous heart would be aching for more and more. It did, it begged to see Harry again, to touch him and love him. But his brain fought it harder than anything. Zayn didn’t think he and Harry would see each other again after not trading numbers, so he figured everything would go back to the old tracks. He could forget about Harry Styles once again.

            But Harry had other plans apparently. He showed up at Sorbonne, standing there just like years ago when he had waited for Zayn outside of class almost every day. Zayn wasn’t even paying attention, his mind too busy by trying to figure out how to run away only to be backed into a corner by his heart and most importantly time, that figured Zayn could forget for a moment that he’s not six years into the future and play with him. Harry gave Zayn his phone and Zayn absentmindedly put in ‘1201’ just like when they were dating. It was a code Harry had for years and Zayn had teased him for it, following it by a kiss because despite making fun of him, Zayn had loved it so much. And that was the begging of the end of them pretending like there are no feelings between them anymore.

            Then they kissed. And it wasn’t forced, not at all. Zayn tried to paint it as a drunken mistake, but that was a lie. Harry initiated it, but Zayn kissed him back. And god, it felt amazing. Despite his inebriety, having Harry’s lips on his again after such a long time was wonderful, unbelievable. They moved in unison just like before, as if no time had passed at all. When they pulled back and Zayn pushed him away, it was one of the hardest things he’s ever done. He nudged Harry away when all he wanted to do was kiss him again, feel his naked skin under his hands and make love until the sun was up, just like the night they met. Next morning, Zayn remembered it all, not only the kiss but his thoughts as well so he wasn’t that drunk to blame it on alcohol.

            It ate way at him and he couldn’t pretend anymore, couldn’t continue with that little charade when they acted like old friends. That lead to their fight on Thursday and since then, Zayn wasn’t himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about them and make up his mind.

            Zayn still loves Harry despite everything and maybe he even knew it all along. The love was dormant, sleeping somewhere inside of him, waiting to be woken up. It’s still as strong as six years ago and his heart is aching with it, throbbing with the pain of it. But he can’t bring himself to pick up the phone and text Harry, talk to him again. There’s the self-preservation that keeps him from doing it, as well as fear and doubt. Zayn has spent years trying to pick up the pieces to put himself back together after Harry left. It wasn’t easy, he didn’t just shrug and say “ _Well, the possible love of my life just left. Whatever, life goes on.”._ He was trying to heal himself for years and now, when he finally feels like he has, Zayn doesn’t want to let Harry ruin him again.

            The fear and doubt are keeping him from even considering the scenario in which Harry doesn’t leave him this time. The previous experience was simple – meet Harry, be together for a few years, spend a long time mending your heart after Harry leaves. What can assure him that this won’t happen again? Everything in this world is temporary. Harry might have changed and Zayn might have changed, but certain things will repeat themselves no matter the circumstances. It’s probably just irrational worry, but Zayn won’t risk it. Not this time.

            Zayn is startled when his doorbell rings later that day. He puts his brush down and answers the intercom, Esme’s voice coming out of the speaker, her “Let me up.” a bit loud for the street. Zayn buzzes her in, waiting in the doorway of his open front door. Esme appears in the hallway a minute later, her nose red from the cold, face half hidden by a big woollen scarf.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” Esme bites out accusingly while stepping inside. Zayn closes the door behind her, puzzled about what the hell she’s talking about.

            “Didn’t tell you what?” Zayn asks, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Esme holds up her arm, a dusty pink paperback book in her hand that Zayn didn’t notice when she arrived. She hits him lightly on the head with it and huffs out an exasperated breath.

            “That you and Harry are together?” Esme stands in the middle of his living room, hands on her hips, her right hand clutching the book. Zayn’s heart misses a beat in his chest.

            “We’re not together, Esme,” Zayn stutters. Esme just scoffs and shakes her head.

            “Then why would he be in Paris? He can back for you, didn’t he?”

            “He didn’t come back for me,” Zayn sighs, “how did you even come up with this?” Esme doesn’t answer, just opens the small paperback in her hand and shoves it at Zayn’s face. Zayn takes it and when he sees the right page, he almost faints. It’s Harry’s poetry book.

_Dedicated to Zayn._

_Years have passed since I’ve seen your face, and I love you still._

_My mistakes have tainted our love, and I love you still._

_My dark heart is shattered, and I love you still._

_If you ever see this, I love you still._

            Zayn feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest and plop on the ground. He takes a trembling breath and looks at Esme, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Esme’s face falls when she sees his face.

            “You didn’t know,” she whispers. Before Zayn can say anything, he’s enveloped in a hug, his face squished by Esme’s gigantic scarf. The second his chin hits her shoulder, the tears sprung free. Esme just shushes him, caressing his back and whispering that it’s all gonna be okay. After a few minutes, Zayn finally glues himself from Esme, but she still won’t let him go that far and holds his forearms in her hands, running her thumbs over the skin.

            “He left me, Es. Six years ago, after we graduated university. He left in the middle of the night and didn’t say a word. And then on Thursday, when we left the restaurant, we had a fight. Harry explained why he left and then he told me he still loved me, even after all those years. And I ran away, because I had no idea what to do or say,” Zayn says, his voice barely above whisper. Esme just looks at him for a moment, the concerned look that Zayn knows so well on her face.

            “Do you wanna talk about it, love?” Esme asks softly.

            “Do you really wanna be burdened by the story of my fucked up love life?” Zayn chuckles self-deprecatingly. Esme just smiles at him and drags him to the couch.

            “Best friends are here for that. Besides, how many times have you listened to me bitch about Delmar when he got on my nerves with his crazy projects? So, c’mon, spit it out.”

            Zayn recounts Esme the whole story. How they met, how they were sleeping together for a few months, how they started dating. Then he starts with the story of their blissful years together. After that is the most dreadful part – Harry’s sudden disappearance. Zayn tells her how broken he was, how it took years to piece himself together. It all ends with their kiss on the previous Friday and the fight two days ago.

            “I have no idea what to do, Esme,” Zayn breathes out after he finally stops talking. It felt like an eternity to get through all of it.

            “Well,” Esme sighs, “he is a fucking piece of shit for what he did to you. So, obviously, this is a complicated situation. You’re saying that you can see he’s changed from the person he used to be and that he still loves you. The question is: can you forgive him?” Zayn bites at his cuticle, contemplating it.

            “I honestly don’t know. I don’t hate him for what he did and I’ve learned to live with it, I guess.” Esme gives him a sceptical look. Zayn sighs and brings his hand to his hair.

            “Fine, do you love him? Do you want to be with him again?” Esme asks after a moment.

            “I do love him,” Zayn says quietly, but without hesitation. He’s come to terms with it – he loves Harry, the sky is blue, water is wet. Simple as that. He figured there’s no reason to fight it anymore and face it as it is.

            “Then forgiveness will follow. I don’t mean to make you out to be soulmates or something, but he’s obviously special. If you can love him despite what he did, despite spending six years apart, maybe it’s worth trying again. But if you feel like you’re in pain, if you’re doing it with terrible heartache, then don’t. You need to trust him that he won’t abandon you again and break your heart,” Esme looks at Zayn with caring eyes and he can’t himself but hug her.

            “What did I do to deserve a best friend like you?” Zayn asks after they let go of each other.

            “I have no idea,” Esme laughs. “But if you want my personal opinion on this, I’m telling you to talk to him. And read the book. That’s the main reason why I’m not telling you to go and beat his ass for leaving you. Just read the whole thing and see for yourself.”

            “Yeah, okay, I will,” Zayn nods. Esme then stands up and picks up her bag from the floor.

            “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I was on my way to rehearsals,” Esme says with an apologizing smile.

            “No, it’s fine. Go so Camille won’t murder the best French ballerina in decades just because she’s late,” Zayn chuckles and dodges Esme’s hand where she was about to slap his shoulder.

            “Read it! Right now, don’t sit around here. The book won’t read itself,” Esme calls from the door and shuts it behind her.

            Zayn sighs and lifts himself from the couch, taking the pink book from the coffee table. ‘ _Love & Remorse’ _is a thin book with a baby pink cover, an outline of a flower in the left corner, unmistakably drawn by Harry as well. It seems harmless and innocent, but is full of words that will be daggers to Zayn’s heart.

+

            Zayn is sitting on his bed leaned against the headboard, gnawing on his cuticles when he starts reading. The book has five parts, listed a paged after the dedication.

_i.  When I met you._

_ii.  When I fell in love with you._

_iii.  When you loved me._

_iv.  When I broke our hearts._

_v.  When I tried to live without you._

            The first part is short, consisting of only four poems. They’re clearly about the night they met. Harry describes the party in the first and how Zayn walked up to him and Mike. The second one is about the sex and the feelings that came with it. The other two are about how Harry regretted not giving Zayn his number and how he longed to see him again. The last one ends with a line about the next time they saw each other. None of it is a surprise to Zayn consider all the times Harry drunkenly mumbled about how he was scared he’d never see Zayn again after their first time together.

            The second part is longer, mostly about how they were hooking up. A stranger most likely wouldn’t know what Harry tried to say with it or the approximate timeline, but Zayn sees it clearly. In these poems, Harry expresses how he fell in love with Zayn while they were just spending nights together now and then, how he wanted more, but didn’t have enough courage. Zayn tears up a bit while reading the poem where Harry talks about that day in the library. It’s surprisingly light-hearted, as if Harry was looking back at it with a smile and sweet nostalgia. The section ends about the time when they were dating for about two months – the time when Harry told Zayn he loved him for the first time.

            The third section starts with a continuation of the previous poem and reveals how Zayn said ‘ _I love you’_ back. All of these poems are incredibly cheerful, soft and full of happiness. Harry doesn’t reveal one bit of the events that ended their relationship. He doesn’t look back at their relationship with resentment, instead choosing to depict it as if it was something that still exists to this day. A clueless reader might even think Harry wrote it about his current lover, not someone he left years ago.

            Zayn starts full on crying while reading part four. Harry says multiple times that leaving was the biggest mistake of his life. He expresses his regret and naivety, how he should’ve never listened to outsider’s opinion on his relationship. There are three poems about how hopeless he felt when he first arrived in New York, how his shame kept him from calling Zayn back. He recalls how horrible he felt about breaking Zayn’s heart. Harry also describes his own heartbreak and despair.

            The fifth part is undoubtedly the most emotional and heart-breaking. Most of it doesn’t describe exact events like the previous parts. Harry describes how each year without Zayn was worse and worse. He recounts the regret again, how it only grew bigger and bigger and the relief, when he saw Zayn being happy without him. Harry also writes about how he tried to get into relationships with other people but couldn’t, because he knew he could never love them, that his heart belongs to someone who hates him forever. The last poem is the longest in the book and it’s an apology and you could say a prayer at once. Harry ends it with a wish about seeing Zayn again, at least once, a glimpse would be enough.

            Zayn is wrecked when he finally finishes it a few hours later. He’s cried for a long time without barely stopping and before he thinks better of it, he grabs his phone and starts to type out a text. Harry didn’t lie about anything and Zayn needs to talk to him. Esme was right, he can’t throw this away. It may be their last chance and Zayn would rather love Harry and live with the hard truth of their separation, than spend years trying to get over Harry and not love anyone ever again.

            The love he feels for Harry is fierce and Zayn knows he won’t get something like it ever again. No one is perfect and people live with their partners who cheat on them, who go behind their backs because they don’t love them. Harry might’ve left in the worst way possible, but at least he didn’t look for love and sex somewhere else and then lied about loving Zayn. Their love isn’t tainted by lies and deceit, only by a terrible, terrible mistake that hurt them both more than enough. Harry paid for it, paid for being stupid and doing a hurtful thing to a person he loves. Zayn suffered as well, just as Harry did. They were both hurt and heartbroken for years and now they have the chance to fix themselves together.

            **I read your book and I need to talk to you. Do you have time?**

Zayn watches his phone anxiously, waiting for the reply. Thankfully, it comes only about three minutes later.

            **_Yes I do. Should I call you?_**

**** **No come over if you can. I dont wanna do this over the phone.**

**_I can be there in like half an hour. Text me the address?_ **

Zayn quickly types out the address to his place, telling Harry which floor and door. Now he just has to wait.

+

            Harry arrives roughly forty minutes later. When Zayn sees him at his door, wrapped in a long coat with sunglasses perched on his head, holding his hair together, his heart almost shuts down. He lets Harry in, asks him if he wants anything, to which Harry shakes his head and they both get seated on the couch with good two meters between them. The silence feels heavy, suffocating, none of them willing to start the conversation. They’re both staring down, Harry playing with his rings and Zayn pretending to study the tattoo on his own left hand.

            “How’d you get to the book?” Harry asks after a long, dreary moment.

            “Esme read it and gave it to me,” Zayn says without lifting his head up.

            “Did you,” Harry clears his throat, “like it?” Zayn finally looks at him again, finding a pair of green eyes already watching him. He wants to touch him, wrap him arms around him and not let go for hours. Zayn wants to finally put an end to this anguish and heartbreak. It might be a mistake, he can end up getting hurt again. Despite the risk, he wants it more than anything.

            “All these years, I thought you were completely fine without me. That’s what I told myself. Why should he enjoy his life in New York, while I’m crying over him an ocean away? It got me to kinda get over you. But I had no idea you were this hurt. That book, god. I almost couldn’t finish it. When I read about all that pain you felt, I couldn’t wrap my head around it for a moment. I felt it, just like I felt my pain over these years too. You were just as heartbroken as I was,” Zayn tries to keep his voice steady. It still hurts. The heartbreak after Harry left, the desperation to be okay without Harry, finding out Harry was broken all these years too.

            “I guess,” Harry whispers, no longer staring at Zayn but choosing to look at the floor instead. Zayn scoots closer on the couch so he’s sitting next to Harry. He can’t be that far away anymore. There was an ocean between them for six years, even two meters are too much now.

            “After I finished the book, I realized something. Why should we keep punishing ourselves, why should we be unhappy when instead of that, we can fix this?” Harry whips his head up and looks at Zayn, his eyes widened. Zayn takes a deep breath and reaches his arm to Harry’s hand where it’s laying on his knee. He takes Harry’s hand in his and the touch is a shock. Harry’s skin is cold, but just the feel of his skin is the one more stupefying. Both of their hands are shaking slightly, but despite the fear, the rising panic, Zayn holds Harry’s hand in his and doesn’t let go. His heart misses a beat when the muscles in Harry’s hand start to move, only for Harry to squeeze Zayn’s fingers with his. It’s all the courage Zayn needs to start talking again.

            “You made a tremendous mistake, Harry. And it can’t be erased, no matter how hard we’d try to forget about it. It happened and there’s nothing we can do to change the past. But we both spent six years living with the consequences. We weren’t happy and we didn’t get over each other, and I don’t think we could ever get to that point, really. I spent a lot of time going over it all in my mind today and I think it’s time for it to end,” Zayn fights the want to hang his head down and escape Harry’s gaze. Instead he keeps his eyes focused on Harry, on his eyes that are wide with anticipation and fear.

            “What are you trying to say?” Harry asks quietly, his voice small. His lips are parted and it reminds Zayn of all those times Harry was worried about school, sitting together just like they are now. _I love him_. Zayn resists the urge to smile. He can’t believe he’s doing this, but maybe it was supposed to happen all along.

            “I love you, Harry. I still do. I tried to deny it for six years, I tried to deny it even after you came to Paris. But I can’t anymore. Despite the heartbreak, despite the six miserable fucking years, I still love you. You told me you loved me two days ago and I wasn’t sure if I could believe it. Then I read your book and all of it was as clear as a day. I love you and I never stopped. I can’t stop even if I wanted to,” he did it, he did something he thought he’d never do. But it’s true and somewhere deep down, Zayn knows he’s wanted to do this for a long time.

            Harry lets out a breathy chuckle that sounds more like a sob. A smile appears on his face and he looks down, shaking his head. Zayn stiffens, worry taking over his mind for a second.

            “Harry?” Zayn asks gently after a moment of silence that started to stretch for too long. Harry lifts his head up, still with a smile on his lips and looks up, his eyes glassy, a single tear rolling down his cheek and further down the long line of his neck. He sighs and looks at Zayn with gentle eyes.

            “I thought I’d never hear you say it again. I was sure that there was no possible way that you could say you loved me again. The only thing I expected to hear was ‘ _I hate you’._ This is better than anything I’ve dreamed of,” Harry says with a sheepish smile and looks down at their locked hands.

            “I wanted to hate you. For some time, I thought I did. But I couldn’t,” Zayn whispers and brings his other hand to hold Harry’s between his.

            “I loved you even when I thought you hated me. I- I think that I’ll never be able to love someone in the way I love you. I don’t want to love anyone else,” Harry confides.

            “You don’t have to,” Zayn takes his right hand off Harry’s and brings it to hold Harry’s cheek, lifting his head up to face Zayn. He gives Harry a small smile, which Harry returns and Zayn caresses his cheekbone with his thumb. Zayn can’t believe this is happening. He hasn’t touched Harry like this in years and until now, he didn’t realize how much he missed it. The first few months after Harry left, Zayn did long for his touch, to have him on the other side of his bed. But Zayn had to forget about it all, ignore how cold his bed felt. No matter how many hook ups he had, how many meaningless relationships he was in, none of them even touched the level of intimacy he had with Harry. But in the end, after all this time, he they are – sitting together, their thighs touching, Zayn holding Harry’s cheek and hand in his and Harry looks at him with the same love in his eyes like he did when they were twenty.

            “Kiss me, please,” Harry breathes out and frees his hand from Zayn’s grasp, bringing it to Zayn’s cheek and holding it.

            Zayn doesn’t hesitate. Unlike last Friday, he’s the one to bring their lips together. They collide and in a second, they both open their mouths and deepen the kiss. This time is much better than the last. Without alcohol clouding their mouths and spoiling their breaths, they’re able to fully enjoy the kiss. Zayn basks in the, in the feelings of Harry’s soft mouth on his, in the way their tongues are touching. Harry’s warm hand is splayed on his left cheek, holding him close to Harry. They pour it all into the kiss – the anguish of their heartbreaks, the six years they spent without each other, the love that still soars through their hearts. It’s a beautiful sensation of painful and blissful.

            “You have no idea how much I missed this,” Harry gasps out between kisses. Zayn just nods, whispers a quiet ‘ _Me too’_ and leaps at Harry’s lips again. Harry grabs the back of his neck and pulls him closer to himself. That’s when the kiss accelerates from zero to hundred in a second. Harry lies back on the couch, pulling throw pillows from underneath him and chucks them at the floor. Zayn fits himself between Harry’s legs, kissing and gently biting at Harry’s neck.

            They make love that evening. After six years of longing for the other’s touch, for a kiss or at least a simple “Hello”, it was impossible for them not to. They don’t bite or leave angry marks. Maybe they should’ve. The time between them is a looming presence, but it couldn’t make them even attempt to be hateful with each other. The love that was waiting to be uncovered, waiting for the layers of resentment and heartbreak to be scraped off, is finally set free. It doesn’t announce itself with force and hostile passion. The love trickles in softly, sweetly, with gentle kisses, roaming hands and tears.

            Tears were inevitable. But they weren’t founded on sadness and anguish – they were pure happiness. Their hearts ached more and more with each kiss and each article of clothing removed, but it was a delightful tinge enveloping their chest and spreading warmth all over their bodies. Their cheeks were stained with evidence of their reconciliation and their new-found joy. The time of melancholy and grief is finally over.

            Harry was the first whose eyes started leaking tears and dampen his cheeks. They were already in bed, no clothes between them. He was sitting on Zayn’s thighs, bent over so they could kiss when Zayn felt something wet on his face. Grabbing Harry’s cheek gently, he lifted Harry’s face away so he could take a look at him. Worry immediately took over Zayn when he saw Harry’s tear stained cheekbones and reddened eyes and he couldn’t help himself but ask if Harry wanted to stop. Harry just shook his head, smiled and said he couldn’t be happier even if he tried.

            Making love to a person you’ve longed for for six years is an enchanting sensation. They couldn’t really believe what was happening. Both of them had doubts that all of it was just a beautiful too realistic dream they never wanted to wake up from. But it wasn’t and when they finally trusted the realness of it, they started to enjoy and savour every single second. It was impossible to stop. They kissed and kissed and kissed until their lips felt numb. The comfort of the other’s touch brought them back to the pleasant memories of their past relationship. The naked skin and restless hands on it were like a fluffy blanket they could wrap in, one made from nothing more than love and affection. Their hearts were soaring with it, with how much love was suddenly bursting through its gates. They were together, lips on lips, skin on skin, heart to heart and everything fell into place again.

            Afterwards, they lay next to each other on their sides, their hands interlocked loosely between them. It’s very much like their first time when they were just two strangers who let passion and mutual attraction take them to bed. Maybe they’re strangers again. Six years is a long time to spend thousands of miles away from someone you once knew like the palm of your hand. They became proper adults, tax paying functioning members of society over those years. People have come into their lives and shaped their personalities. Whether it was a cheating boyfriend or an amazing best friend. It left a mark either way.

            Zayn’s staring into Harry’s green eyes, the mossy colour strikingly familiar and he realizes, he doesn’t really know Harry at all. Does he still stress bakes muffins when he’s anxious about something and feeds them to all his friends to make himself feel better about the world? Has he finally learned how to play the guitar? Is his favourite movie still _Love Actually_? Zayn has learned a few things about Harry over the short time Harry’s been back in his life. Harry isn’t the cocky twenty-year-old he used to be. His demeanour is less brash and eye-catching. It seems to Zayn that Harry is more honest, more in touch with his feelings and emotions. And if he’s not mistaken, Harry no longer drinks coffee with milk, which is weird considering the “Old Harry” would’ve rather died than drunk plain black coffee.

            “Tell me about yourself,” Zayn whispers into the silence. It isn’t quite night yet, just dark enough so they can see each other in the room. Harry chuckles, a close-lipped smile splitting his cheeks.

            “You know me better than anyone. We are no strangers.”

            “Maybe we are. So many things could’ve changed since we last saw each other. C’mon, tell me something I don’t know,” Zayn squeezes Harry’s hand encouragingly.

            “I-uh,” Harry stutters, dodging Zayn’s inquisitive gaze, “I went to see your art show. Last year, in New York.” Harry’s words hit Zayn like a five-tonne weight, pressing at him like those in the cartoons do. _Harry saw his exhibition in New York. What if he was there at the opening?_ Over the last few years, Zayn has wondered many times whether or not Harry saw his art, his Instagram or Twitter account. After all, they still had mutual friends they kept in touch with, they had to have. Maybe Harry caught a glance of something their friend from uni retweeted from Zayn and clicked on his profile. Zayn now knows that it happened for sure but this? Harry actually going to a gallery to see Zayn’s work? Zayn wants to pinch himself to be sure this isn’t a dream.

            “What?” Zayn breathes out.

            “The gallery is near a spot I used to get dinner at sometimes with friends and they had a poster there. I swear my heart almost gave out when I saw your name on it. There was no way I was missing that, so I tried to get an invitation to the opening. Some of my friends went but I didn’t manage to go after all. Well, I guess it’s a good thing because I have no idea what I would’ve done if I saw you there. Anyways, I went to see it a few days after and it was honestly breath-taking. I was so proud of you because I always knew you were brilliant, that you were better than our entire year combined. All I wanted to do was call you and gush about it for an hour. But I couldn’t,” Harry’s eyes are glistening with tears when he finished. A bitter half-smile is adoring his lips, probably in the regret of their wasted years apart.

            Their past is never going to be forgotten, or completely forgiven. It’s going to haunt them, pull at their ankles and scratch, follow them like a gloomy shadow forever. The pain and heartbreak of those six years can’t vanish like smoke into the air and leave only happy memories behind. They will both carry it with them as a phantom pain, always there but not really tangible. However, there’s still love. So much love they could swim in it, set up a waterfall and admire its glory. The love that’s still between them has to be, _needs to be_ stronger than their bygone mistakes. Along with the happy memories of their early years together, it’s all that keeps them afloat. They got a second chance, one more shot to make it right, to be happy again. So they have to fight for it, even with the shortage of weapons to battle with.

            “You can now,” Zayn whispers, wiping a tear from under Harry’s eye with his thumb, “you can tell me anything because I love you. And I’m not letting you go, okay?” Harry nods and forces a small grin on his lips, a spark of optimism appearing in his eyes.

            “I still can’t believe this,” Harry says faintly and grabs Zayn’s wrist, leaving Zayn’s hand cradling his face, “you want to be with me, you _love_ me even after everything I did. Why do you still want me? Why aren’t you throwing things at me and yelling at me to get out? Why are you trying to be in a relationship with me again?” Harry’s voice gets more urgent with each question, the last one drenched with desperation and hurt.

            “I’m in love with you, Harry. I have been for years, even when I wanted to hate you and forget I ever met you. And despite everything that happened, I want to try again. It will be hard as fuck, because every time we’ll fight, I’ll probably bring up how you left me years ago. For some time, I won’t trust that you won’t leave me again. So it’s going to be incredibly difficult, but I’m willing to do it because I love you. And I think that’s enough to at least try,” Zayn isn’t extremely sure about his words. But he’s certain about one thing – he loves Harry and he wants what they used to have again.

            “I promise I’ll never leave until you tell me to. I can’t be without you ever again. The last six years were torture,” Harry rasped, his warm hand still holding Zayn’s wrist, his thumb going over a raised bone gently.

            “I know. I don’t want to lose you again,” Zayn confesses.

            “You won’t,” Harry shakes his head resolutely, “I love you so much.”

            “I love you too,” Zayn whispers and places a small kiss on Harry’s lips. He wraps his arms around Harry and lets silence envelop them, inviting sleep to come to them shortly.

            After six long years they spent apart, heartbroken and feeling empty, they fall asleep holding each other just like in uni before their love was scarred with foolish mistakes like a soldier after a war. They’re in love, they’re together again and neither of them has any plans of sneaking out of the bed in the middle of the night. It’s a new start with someone old, new memories to be mixed with the old ones. It’s all they ever wanted.

+

            Time can be defeated. Not entirely of course. It still can’t be tricked or commanded. You can’t bend it or shape it. No one can go back a few years or centuries. Time rules us and we must obey, whether we like it or not. But we can choose to neglect a thing time tried to do - push back our carefully crafted schedules or give us less time to be asleep. We can fight time and win a battle, but we’ll never win the war.

            It was time that was a big factor in the demise of Zayn and Harry’s love. Six years to be precise. Of course, it only fuelled the collapse after Harry’s grave mistake, but time certainly tried its best to make their love dissipate until not one emotion was left. Maybe it was time that also saved it when they coincidently met again, but we can’t know for sure, can we?

            This was a battle they won. After a very long period of time, they reunited. Despite that, their love was intact, hidden safely deep inside their hearts. It was attacked by many more things than just time – hate, resentment, regret, disappointment. But it survived. It won many, many other battles and here they are – in love and together once again.

            Despite the many tough obstacles in the road of their love, they got their happy ending in the end. Paris was a city that never got to experience them as lovers before and now it gets more than just their beginnings, it gets the rest of their lives. So far, there’s not a marriage but they both know that living without the other is just unimaginable. They’re happy the way things are. Their lives got significantly better and once again, they’re the annoying couple attached at the hip that their friends loving roll their eyes at. They go to see art together, have dinners with their very large group of friends and kiss in the narrow Parisian streets, because it’s just their thing. Harry starts painting again, his works no longer depressive and dark, and he no longer writes regretful poetry about lost love, because his love is right by his side. Zayn finishes the book of his art, adding three painting that were hidden in his parents’ attic for six years into the final version and finds himself depicted on Harry’s canvases more often than not.

            They’re happy and they’re together. None of them has latent doubts about their relationship and there are no sudden flights to America without a return date on the ticket. Zayn learns to trust Harry again and Harry never hides his worries. Their love is unshakable and nothing, nothing at all could tear it apart.

**Author's Note:**

> So you made it to the end! If you liked it, please leave kudos, a comment and reblog the post on my Tumblr (@imlivingonawire). You'll find it on the blog easily, since I'll annoy my poor followers with it for weeks.  
> Thank you so so so much for reading and even a bigger thank you for any kind of feedback. <3


End file.
